


Blessed are...

by scap3goat (kriegswaffel)



Series: What's "Alphabet" in Korean? [2]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegswaffel/pseuds/scap3goat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulcahy never was a great speaker and sermon's aren't his favourite pasttime. And sometimes his thoughts wander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed are...

**Author's Note:**

> Second "rewrite" of a (also almost 8 years old) story I did back in the mash-slash yahoo group. Again, little editing necessary.

Mulcahy stared down at the draft for Sunday's sermon. Nothing. Just a blank page looking back at him, almost accusingly. Blank but for one line.

_"Blessed are those..."_

Mulcahy had thought that it would be a good start. Talking about loving one's neighbour, giving away one's coat, taking a two-mile hike.

Well, those rather sounded like things that Hawkeye, Trapper and Frank would do (respectively), though he could hardly imagine the first two sermonizing about their good deeds. Now Frank... He steered himself away from that train of thought with a brief feeling of penitence. The priest wondered what Casanova and apprentice and Major Burns were doing right now.

Just another proof for how off-kilter he felt today. Still, he did know who had messed with his mind. Although that who didn't know what he did without knowing what he was doing.

Better not spend so much time listening to Radar over lunch...

But it was Friday afternoon and Mulcahy knew his limits. If he didn't finish his sermon before dinner there was no hope for Saturday, either, and improvising on Sunday was way above him.

 

There were so many thoughts and ideas in his head but it felt as though they needed to be forcefully extracted. He didn't know how to express his deep thoughts without feeling vulnerable and like an idiot. That poem in fourth grade had "taught" him. Their laughter sometimes still rang in his ears. He tended to work on his sermons for hours because of that.

But now he couldn't think of anything to write.

_"Blessed are those who dare to speak their mind freely."_

Francis' thoughts wandered off to a certain person. Always loud and with a witty comeback on his lips. He seemed immune from the disapproval which was bestowed so freely whenever he made a ribald joke or an outrageous comment. Always provocative, but never cruel. And maybe disguising one's true feelings in jokes and innuendos was better than to lay them bare, vulnerable.

He admired Hawkeye's easy way with words. He enjoyed watching Hawkeye banter with Trapper, the two tossing them back and forth like a ball.

_"Blessed are those..."_

A pause.

_"Oh Lord, please help me. Help me to be as blessed as Hawkeye. You know that I fear to say what's on my mind but I... I cannot guide these people here without saying anything. How can they trust me with their problems if I can't find an answer? I must seem to lack compassion. I trust Your judgement but sometimes I wish Your ways were a little clearer to me. What do You want from me and why does it have to be so hard? I trust him. At times when not even Your word can guide or counsel me and my prayers seem to get no response he is there. He listens and knows what to do. His words are kind and truthful._

_"I wish I could love him the way I do. Really love him. I'm not allowed to, I accept that, but the urge is there. To just watch him, when he's sitting in the mess, joking about the food. To talk to him, after a long and hard day, to wind down. To hold him at night when he's weeping silently - because I know that he does. I want to hold his gentle hands, the hands You work through to save the boys who want to be men. And as much as I love to hear him talk I want to just kiss him to shut up for a minute or two."_

 

It took some time for Mulcahy to become aware of his surroundings again. He looked down at the paper, shocked. In a fit of anger and self-loathing he crumpled the paper and flung it across the room. Some priest he was. How could he have gotten so carried away?

On the new, clean and pure sheet he started to write: _"The Prodigal Son"_


End file.
